


Save Me

by reigningqueenofwords



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Emotional Abuse, Gen, Mental Abuse, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-09 15:40:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17409632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reigningqueenofwords/pseuds/reigningqueenofwords
Summary: Request: Anonymous. Could you write a oneshot based off of broken home by 5sos and because of you by kelly klarkson? Not related to the boys like where they help her (also I know this is a strange request but you not put much fluff in in it I see this going somewhere angsty) thank you so muchA/N: I don’t know if this is what the anon was asking for, but this is how it went. I heard the 5SOS song (I had never heard them before), and was punched in the gut. It was like I wrote it myself. Everything in this fic, aside from the Winchesters, was my life. I didn’t get out at the end like that, but that’s how I’m ending this fic. The step-father portrayed was 100% me channeling my ex-step-father. It was bittersweet to write. That is a painful time to remember, but writing about it let’s me get some of it out. xx





	Save Me

**Author's Note:**

> Request: Anonymous. Could you write a oneshot based off of broken home by 5sos and because of you by kelly klarkson? Not related to the boys like where they help her (also I know this is a strange request but you not put much fluff in in it I see this going somewhere angsty) thank you so much  
> A/N: I don’t know if this is what the anon was asking for, but this is how it went. I heard the 5SOS song (I had never heard them before), and was punched in the gut. It was like I wrote it myself. Everything in this fic, aside from the Winchesters, was my life. I didn’t get out at the end like that, but that’s how I’m ending this fic. The step-father portrayed was 100% me channeling my ex-step-father. It was bittersweet to write. That is a painful time to remember, but writing about it let’s me get some of it out. xx

Laying in bed, you stared at the ceiling. Or, what little you could see of it. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see the chandelier. That’s how little you meant. You moved in with your mother and step-father the summer before. They couldn’t be bothered to get a bigger apartment so you could have your own room. Instead, they slapped a bed in the dining room, put up a sheet, and that was that. You were in high school, and already you had no hopes for the future. 

Your parents fighting was something that happened every night. Always about the same thing. _You_. Most nights, you’d put on your headphones and turn the volume up all the way. When you were lucky, that would drown out the sounds of their arguments. Tonight wasn’t one of those nights.

“You let her get away with everything! She’s not a fucking angel!” You heard your step-father scream. You knew you weren’t an angel.

“No, she’s not! But for fuck’s sake, she gets straight As and Bs, she’s never been arrested, she doesn’t sneak out, and she helps around the house. What the fuck do you _want_ from her?” You silently sobbed into your pillow, the voice of Marilyn Manson soothing you only slightly.

You heard something bang, and you assumed that your step-father slammed his fist down. “Some fucking _respect_!” He yelled.

“Maybe she’ll fucking respect you if you respect her!” Your mom defended you. You had an odd relationship with your mother. You hated her. You saw her as weak. He’d been in your life since you were about two. You’d never liked him. You knew he wasn’t your father, and you did everything you could to avoid him. You would beg and plead not to go to your mothers every other weekend. You would play sick. Anything to not be around him. When you were six, they got married. You begged your mother not to. You told her he was a mean man.

She was now paying for that very mistake.

“Are you serious? She’s sixteen! I’m the adult, and I am her parent.” He yelled, and you could tell that this wasn’t ending any time soon.

“ _No_ , you’re not.” With that, you buried your head under your pillow, thinking of how to end you life.

* * *

The next morning, when you woke up, it was just you. You were responsible for getting your brothers up, you were the one who had to try to get them to eat breakfast. It wasn’t like you could go wake up your mother, either. She locked her bedroom door at night because she was afraid of you.

Running your hand through your messy, greasy black hair, you sighed. Having clean clothes, or enough shampoo to really be clean was rare. Before you did anything, you pulled the box cutter from under your mattress. You’d developed this addiction when you were fourteen. You’d been doing it daily for just as long. Your arm had white scars all up and down it, as did your thighs. Your mother never noticed. Why would she? As you slowly dragged the blade across your pale skin, you felt the tears begin to flow. You were a coward. You never pushed deep enough to just end it all, and you hated yourself for it.

After, you hid the box cutter, got dressed, pulled on your hoodie, and woke up your two brothers. Of course, your middle brother threatened you and hurled insults at you. Nothing new. You’d never gotten along with him. The two of you couldn’t be in the same room without things getting violent after a few minutes.

You’d be the one getting in trouble if they didn’t get up. Of course. Everything was your fault. Grabbing your messenger bag, you slung it over your shoulder and walked out. Yet another day headed to that shit hole of a school. The cold air hit your face, making you shudder. You took the long way to your bus stop, knowing that it would give you time to just finish smoking your cigarette. You’d taken to stealing them from your mother the month before. Once she found out, she started buying you your own. Flicking the ashes, you blew the smoke from your mouth.

Living to thirty wasn’t something you expected to do. You’d either commit suicide, your brother would finally kill you, or you’d do something stupid enough to die. If you weren’t being bullied at school, you were being berated at home. You couldn’t win. Tossing the butt of your cigarette down, you stepped on it, not bothering to stop.

The bus ride to school was spent listening to one of your “friends” talk about the boy she liked. Boys didn’t look at you like that. You were the fat girl. You were the freak. Those were the nicer things. Even the vice-principle had something against you.

You walked off the bus, straight through the cafeteria, and out the other door. One of your friends that had graduated was picking you and another friend up for the school day. Seeing his truck, you felt a little bit of relief.

The three of you watched Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, ate ravioli from a can, and got high. The rest of the day was spent with him between the sheets. He was one of the few people that looked at you like a human being. You knew that you shouldn’t be losing your virginity to him. He had a girlfriend, but that’s how little you cared.

Your mother thought you had detention that day, as she did most days, so you were dropped off in time to ride the late bus home.

* * *

Walking in the door, you were met with your step-father’s anger. “Where the fuck were you?” You flinched. He’d only hit you once, but you were terrified of him. When would he finally snap? When would the marks on your body come from him?

Swallowing, you tried to find your voice. “School.” You said quietly.

“It’s fucking five o'clock. What were you doing?”

“I had detention.” You lied, tears welling up in your eyes.

He got up, standing a few inches taller then you. “You want to cry? I’ll give you something to fucking cry about. Stop it.” You nodded, wiping your cheeks. Ever since before you could really remember, he hated seeing you cry. Just for the simple fact that it pissed him off. It didn’t matter if you were in pain, or scared. He would threaten to really make you cry. “Go to your fucking room.” You bolted, curling up in the corner, knees to your chest, silently sobbing. You hoped that he didn’t come in there to yell at you again. You hoped that he’d get online while smoking his pot, chatting up women that weren’t your mother to sleep with, and forget that you were even there.

Even living with your alcoholic, cocaine addicted father had been heaven compared to this. You heard your mother walk in from work and laid down, pretending to sleep. You didn’t want to deal with it. You didn’t want to pretend that you loved her, that her life was a big red flag for what life was like. You didn’t want to have to comfort her when you were the one falling apart. You didn’t feel like having to play mom again.

Everything she did was a guide of what not to do, what not to say, how not to act. You were terrified that you’d end up with a man like your step-father. You were scared that this would be the cycle. Three kids by three different men. Marrying the third’s father. Winding up in a mentally and emotionally abusive relationship, and leaning on your teenage daughter.

Not even minutes later, the yelling started. The screaming. The accusations. Just another night in paradise, right? Finally, you got sick of it. You couldn’t take it anymore. Grabbing your cigarettes and lighter, you stormed through the living room, igniting his rage once more. “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” He yelled at you.

“Out.” You replied, knowing that when you got home, you’d be in deep shit. You didn’t care. He moved to stop you, but your mother stepped in his way and you ran. Your feet carried you down the three flights of stairs, out the front of your apartment building.

You didn’t even know where you were headed. It wasn’t like any of your friends were close by, and if they were, they wouldn’t be happy that you were knocking on your door. Your feet made their way towards a near by park.

Laying on one of the picnic tables, your hoodie on the bench, your arm hung off the side, cigarette between your fingers. A sick chuckle escaped your lips. _“Smoking is the most feminine thing you do.”_ you heard your mother’s voice in your head.

“Something funny?” You heard a voice, making you turn your head. You saw a couple of guys that you didn’t recognize.

You shrugged, taking a drag and blowing out the smoke.

“What happened?” The other one asked, his shaggy hair moving as he nodded to your arm. You hadn’t even thought about that.

Sighing, you sat up, flicking the butt off onto the concrete. “I deal with physical pain better than emotional. I deserve it, anyway.” You pulled on your hoodie, moving to leave.

The green eyed man stopped you. “Do you have anywhere to go?” He asked gently, looking worried. That wasn’t something that you weren’t used to. “Do you need a ride home?”

You shook your head. “I’m gonna be in enough trouble, I should get home.” Your voice was laced with fear. “Night.” It was already dark. Moving past him, you walked through the park, out onto the road.

“ _Wait_ , let us make sure you get home safe.” The taller one asked. “What’s your name?”

“Y/N.” You told him.

He gave you a smile. “I’m Sam, this is my brother, Dean. It’s late, let us help you.”

You gave a sarcastic laugh and nodded. “Sure.” Hey, if they turned out to be killers, that would be pretty helpful, right? They led you to their car, which was the most beautiful piece of machinery that you had ever seen. You slid in the back, telling them where to go. “That apartment complex. Building G.” You said quietly, shaking. You weren’t sure if that was more from being around complete strangers, or from not even wanting to go home.

They pulled up and you went to get out. “Wait, do you want us to walk with you?” Sam asked.

“No, I’ll be fine from here.” You lied, shutting the door.

“Tough.” Dean replied, getting out. “We’ll walk you anyway.” He could tell something was off.

“Fine. Whatever.” You shrugged, turning and heading up the three flights of stairs. You stopped at the top step of your floor. “I can go from here.” You kept your voice very quiet, knowing that everything that was said in the halls could be heard inside. “Thanks.” You gave them a small smile and hurried into your apartment.

They turned to leave, but froze when they heard the yelling coming from your apartment. “You don’t fucking walk out of here like that!” They heard a man’s voice. Turning back toward the door you walked through, the ran in. You were sitting on the floor, back against the wall, you were crying. “ _Shut up_!” Your step father looked towards the two men. “Oh, so that’s what you were doing? You’re such a fucking _slut_.” His attention turned back to you. “I won’t have you fucking guys while living under my roof. You keep your legs shut, you hear me? I’m not about to take care of some kid because you don’t know how to stay off your back.”  

“Hey, _asshole_ , lay off.” Dean spoke up. You looked towards him, scared. Your step-father wouldn’t hesitate to hit him. “Who are you to talk to her like that?”

“I’m her step-father. She will go by my rules as long as she lives under my roof.” He snapped, making you jump.

Sam motioned for you to come on. You shook your head, your eyes snapping to the man standing between you and the door.

Your step-father turned to you. “Get the fuck out of my house.” He yelled. “You are no longer welcome here. You will not contact your mother. You ever knock on that door, and you will wish that you never crossed me.” You ran to your room, grabbing your bag, a couple books, your cd player, your box cutter, and a couple pieces of clothing. That was pretty much the extent of what you owned. As you walked towards the front door, you were having trouble breathing. You were being hit with an anxiety attack. Your stepfather’s eyes watched you, full of nothing but hatred for you. For someone that had been friends with your father, he held you in the lowest regard possible. “You’ll end up knocked up by some loser in no time. You’re a freak, and you’re going to ruin your life.” He snarled.

You’d walked out that front door two months ago. Every night when you closed your eyes, your mind would replay everything in your mind. You still cried yourself to sleep while blaring music in your headphones. You still kept your box cutter. Every loud noise made you jump, you watched over your shoulders, and were completely terrified of showing anyone any emotion that wouldn’t please them. If you were angry, sad, or a little upset, you would cry if trying to talk about it. Eventually, you shut down. You didn’t even try.

Physically, you escaped your hell. Mentally? You realized that you never would.


End file.
